


Care for the Blind

by ridgeline



Series: Somewhere Out of the Woods [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: All Consent and Sane But Not Safe, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Torment, Insults, It's a Temeria Taunt, Light Bondage, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, We All Need Years Of Therapy But Let's Try Sex Instead, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25446736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ridgeline/pseuds/ridgeline
Summary: In the dimming candlelight, somehow everything felt less shamble.Or: let's do terrible things to each other to forget the terrible things we did in past, can you drink to that?
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Series: Somewhere Out of the Woods [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1962229
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37





	Care for the Blind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aes3plex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aes3plex/gifts).



> For tautline-hitch, for she generously spent her time with me to explain how medieval medic works. This one featuring sex, violence, and treatment - and I couldn't say no to _punished as a boy_ , so hope you like it. This was meant to be a small piece of smut, somehow, it had grown into a much longer fic. How did this happen, we just don't know.
> 
> Huge thx for my beta 69 and DJ, without your hard work, this couldn't be finished. 
> 
> Since English is not my first language, so all the odd parts and grammar errors are all on me.

The whip hit on Iorveth's back with a loud, cracking sound.

Iorveth startled, his body tensed up for defense. Dull stings bit on his bare skin like fire. Iorveth hissed, brushed his unscathed cheek against his shoulder.

The chamber fell silent again.

Iorveth could only hear his own breath, rapid and shallow. Other than that, the room was so quiet, as if he was the only one here.

Except he wasn't.

Iorveth stayed still, waited on mild alert.

The second blow came in a flash, struck on the soft place between his shoulder blades, fast and hard. Iorveth's head snapped to the side with the lash. He grunted, struggled frantically, felt dizzy, and disoriented. The ropes that tied both of his wrists to the end of the bed were pulled into a tensed straight line, whined with an almost cracked sound.

After a heartbeat, the third blow struck on the same spot, then the fourth. The fifth. The sixth.

The seventh.

Iorveth gasped angrily, black spots floating in his blurred eyesight. Warm blood slid down his naked back. The thrash stopped.

Slowly, the tip of whip gently pressed on the tender, swollen parts of his bruised skin, almost like a caress.

Roche remained silent.

Iorveth grunted, refuse to make any further sound. The sickening feeling lingered in his chest.

The slick tip moved alone, crossed the new wounds, rubbed on the older, cartilage-like scarred tissues. It's painless, but Iorveth clenched his teeth. His face was feverish with humiliation. His eye squeezed shut. Stars blinked behind his heavy eyelid.

“You good?” Roche asked.

“Go on,” Iorveth growled, “Do your worst.”

It's more like a figure of speaking, but Roche seemed to take it literally. Typical interrogator. Put words in your mouth and use it as a weapon, leave you no choice but to deny it until you lost in the maze of words, facts, and lies until you said something stupid eventually - or they made you think so.

Roche could have done better, but he's getting old. Common Dh’oine.

In the dimming candlelight, somehow everything felt less shamble. The whipping continued. The whip hitting Iorveth's body with a steady and vicious rhyme. Iorveth's head throbbed. The sound of whipping got wetter and duller with each blow like the whip was striking on a rotten tree trunk.

Iorveth could hear his bones making a slight cracking sound under his skin, like fragile ice in the spring.

_Fun facts: the fastest sound in the world was the one that went through your bones, especially when it's breaking._

Iorveth learned that a long time ago.

His nails dug deeply into his palms. Another blow struck on his shoulder, burnt like fire. The pain dashed through his spine. Iorveth flinched, went limp in the bindings. His kneels slip with his sweat and blood. There's something stuck in his throat, he made a painful sound, felt sick. 

Another blow landed on Iorveth's back with a dull sound, then another, tore his skin. Old, burning anger inflated in his chest, rushed, clenched on him, bared its teeth, needed to be lashing out.

It died under the whipping, then resurrected, again and again.

Iorveth endured.

He needed to be numb for it.

After a while, through the whipping, Iorveth’s mind was in a far place. No pain, no feeling, nothing. He didn't have to wait for the pain and hurt to happen, he chose it, demanded it, it's happening right now. It won't happen the next day. It's under control, it's just actions from the other side of the foggy glass, harmless.

But the smells in the room were all too familiar; It's the odor of injured body, pain, and fear. The smells of caged animals.

It's too much, too distinctive.

Iorveth inhaled deeply. Suddenly, he needed air and light. 

“Stop," He demanded, out of breathing.

Roche stopped as he was ordered.

Iorveth gasped in blinding rage. Silently, a knife slashed through, the ropes on Iorveth's wrist cut loose. He's free, again.

Iorveth waited for a few minutes, then stood up weakly, still dizzy. He rubbed on his right wrist, avoid showing weakness to the Dh’oine gawked behind him.

No comment from Roche. Good.

When Iorveth's breath finally calmed, he steadied himself, went to pick up the clothes he left on the floor. Out of the corner of his good eye, Roche remained where he was. He was still fully dressed, face blank, breathing evenly. Only the bloodstains on his hands and gambeson told the story.

This sight raised an old fear - a blurred form stood outside the bars, always faceless. But the silhouette was not too far from Roche's.

Loathing seeped in Iorveth's chest. Mild headache jabbing his head like a dull knife.

It's going to pass, too.

Iorveth ignored Roche, sat on the edge of the bed. The Dh’oine's job here is done, he probably needs to step off the stage stirless but Iorveth’s not going to ask him to. Iorveth pulled on his boots. He was still shaking, slick fingers slipped on the laces.

Shadows dancing on the floor, Iorveth bit his lips, tried to relax. 

Another long, lean shadow joined on the floor; Roche approached him.

In the sick yellow light, Roche gave Iorveth a tall cup of wine, then bend to twiddle the candlewick lighter. Roche assessed Iorveth, then nodded slightly, sat beside him, two fists apart. Roche turned his face, admiring his work in voracious silence. His strange behavior was annoying as always.

Iorveth sniffed, then drank. The sweet liquid comforted his squeezed throat.

He closed his eye, felt Roche put a cloth of velvet on his back.

Roche's skilled fingers moved like he was adjusting bowstrings. The cloth gently brushed over the tender, swollen cuts, this unpleasant action awakened Iorveth's numb body, he could sense the touch of soft fabric against his wounds. It stung. But it was better than before. Some kind of relief mixed into it.

Roche was still hurting him. Satisfaction radiated from Roche's calm face. But this part of the game was not for Iorveth, it's for Roche now.

The deal was like that.

"It looks good," Said Roche, in his usual professional way, "I don't think you need to dress."

He moved the velvet away, changed to a dampened towel, tending to Iorveth's wounds.

"Good, " Said Iorveth, indifferently.

Cold sweat dripped from Iorveth's jaw, he took another sip from his cup, finally stopped shaking. Roche was still treating his wounds, soothing the pain. He probably soaked the towel in a few strong spirits, cleansing the wounds while its touch gnawing on Iorveth's swollen skin.

"Must be fun, to have me as your whipping boy, " Iorveth added, amused with by the thought. His shoulders hunched up in mocking curious, "A reminder of the old days I suppose?"

"Whipping is not a way of interrogation if that's what you mean. It's a punishment for crime, "Roche drawled softly, still cleaning Iorveth's wounds, "I'm in no position to punish you, at least not now."

Iorveth laughed, humorlessly.

It's after midnight now, and he hadn't slept for two days. Everything was a bit in the mist. Light blood loss always brings him a bright feeling. He was exhausted, but the rush of adrenaline was still coursing through his vein.

Iorveth wouldn't allow this to happen in the past, but then again, he wouldn't ask Roche to beat him up back then as well.

He wasn't living in the past now. Not anymore.

Things are different now.

In this new life, or what's left of it, Iorveth can expend sleep, knowing he wouldn't need to run for five hours tomorrow. He can hoard food and extra cloth under his new bed in Veregen - a bed that belongs to him. He can do shameful things with Roche behind closed doors. In this life, he can be debauched.

It just doesn't matter anymore.

Still waiting for Roche to finish the job, Iorveth turned to access the Dh’oine's chamber in boredom. He snickered at the humble furniture and grandiose style. Roche's abstinence character always crushes with the Nilfgaardian style, and he seemed determined to kept it as some kind of self-torture. No blue colors and lilies, only black and golden. Small bruises. Guess selling himself at not a bad price had that effect on Roche.

Iorveth decided to avoid the small pool of black stain at the end of the bed. 

Even with his wildest guess, Iorveth would never know how Roche managed to clean those things afterward, he's good at covering it as if nothing ever happened.

Job experience, it must be.

Iorveth's attention returned to Roche himself. The towel's surface was rough, Iorveth almost missed the soft touch of the velvet. He kind of wanted Roche to change it back, or put the other thing on him.

Sometimes Roche does.

He lowered his head, looked at Roche's crotch.

Primal animal, of cause.

"I can help with that," Iorveth offered, licked his lips, because he felt generous enough, "If you want."

Roche ignored him. He finished his work, wiped his hands clean with the towel, then ditched it into the basin on the floor.

"I want you to leave." Said Roche.

Iorveth frowned.

"Why?" He demanded, "We are going back to the old play-hard-to-get? You are hardly a virgin now."

"It's late. Believe it or not, I just want to sleep, " Roche sighed, "Meeting with a non-human _ally_ in private is scandalous enough. I really don't have the energy to conjure up any further information right now. "

Iorveth chuckled.

Sometimes Roche does this too. Last time they did this routine, they ended up in bed, and that's probably the reason for this little show. Roche needs to feel good with his conscience and twisted moral standards. Sometime it's interesting to watch him torture himself with that too, but not now.

"You Dh’oine's double standard always amuse me," Iorveth sneered, "Your race is good at pretending what you did yesterday had nothing to do with your honor, but today, you are forced by me to take the actions, although you enjoyed it very much."

He did force Roche, by trespassed into Roche's chamber in the middle of the night. But that's not the point here.

Roche shook his head.

"Leave," He stood up, patted the tail of his gambeson, "I'm not in the mood for the 'your race' talk, elf. Go back to your room and wank yourself or else, I don't care."

Iorveth sniffed.

"If you loathe this," Said him, "Why didn't you just reject me?"

Roche guffawed.

His harsh voice echoed in the empty room, like a blatant taunt. Somehow Iorveth found it rude. Humiliation, even. Anger burned his face. His lips twisted in disgust.

Roche didn't say anything, just palmed his drained face with both of his hands, rubbed it. He sighed, relaxed beside Iorveth again, this time closer.

"Because you keep coming back, little squirrel, "Said Roche, in a thoughtful tone. His cold eyes stared at Iorveth with distanced, "Because you refuse to leave. Wherever I go, you will be there, bothering me. You are like some junk souvenir I bought by chance - I didn't even want it, then years passed, somehow you, the little souvenir, are the only thing that left in my luggage. It's like I'm fucking stuck with you."

"So what you were saying is that I'm a lewd wooden craft you bought at Novigrad while piss-drunk," Iorveth heard his own voice became peacefully calm. He stayed still, let the rage burn, "What a charming thought. "

"At least I didn't whore myself out to the next empire," He added, "Then whined about how things had gone wrong, people didn't treat me right."

Roche stayed still.

Then he laughed again, hollow and dark.

"Of course not," Roche shook his head, his smile crooked, "You whored yourself out to a woman, and when you spread your legs for her, she didn't even want you."

They kept smiling, glared at each other, fury boiled in the room; old, naked hatred float in the air. Iorveth didn't move or speak, he knew perfectly clear Roche was waiting for his next strike. A specific insult, a weapon Iorveth hasn't use for years.

_But not now._

He will not be the one to lose control first.

A few minutes passed; Roche reached out. He gently stroked on Iorveth's back. Roche's fingertips touched on the edge of the half-open wounds, caressing the pained skin.

Iorveth clenched on his teeth. Then he smiled ravenously, enjoying the sweet taste of victory that waved through his chest. 

He wasn't the one who lost control.

Roche leaned forward, kissed on the bone at the top of Iorveth's spine; his dry, warm lips pressed on the cold skin, breathed into Iorveth's neck.

"You know what names people called the whores who sleep with one another? "Roche murmured, "Because they think even whores can be loved. "

Roche's firm hand fell on Iorveth's thigh. All but naturally, Iorveth grabbed it.

He caught Roche's forefinger, twisted to the opposite side mindlessly. The jolt made a clear sound. Roche endued, his hard face whitened, but still emotionless. He stared at Iorveth, dark eyes empty. Oh, how Iorveth loves this part, to imagine all the training that Roche had been through. A warm feeling tingled between Iorveth's legs. He's growing hard.

Iorveth let go of Roche's hand. Roche's fingers left a blood trace on the inside of Iorveth's palm.

His own blood tainted his hand. But it's not the first time.

"Even whores could comfort each other, but you already knew that," Iorveth explained it patiently, he wiped his hand on the quilt, "Or maybe you'd much prefer to take yourself as a _mistress_ since you seemed to get involved with the Dh’oine kings a lot. How many of them now? Three? Did you got a fetish for it?"

Before Roche could answer, Iorveth lean back on the bed, tilted his head.

"Suck me," Iorveth said, lazily.

Roche's eyelid fluttered, a muscle on his face jerked. A few minutes passed. Roche wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then kneel in front of Iorveth.

Iorveth loosed his belt, exposed his half-hard cock. Roche adjusted his position awkwardly, then opened his mouth, took Iorveth's cock in. Roche started with a few weak and hesitated lick on the length, then changed it into long and slow sucking with steady rhyme. Iorveth relaxed into Roche's mouth, his right hands on the bed, bracing himself.

Roche's head bobbed; he's having a mouth full, slimy silva dripped on his jaw. Iorveth moaned, his fingers reached down blindly, searched for Roche's head. For a moment, Roche's redden face showed, Iorveth's clammy cock slipped out his mouth, he rested his heated cheek on the inside of Iorveth's thigh, sighed. Iorveth lifted his right leg, dangling on Roche's shoulder, urged him to take care of his balls. Roche's tongue dragged on his sensitive skin, leaving lazy, shiny trails, and went back to suck the head, lick the dripping slit.

Hot breath hovered his skin, Iorveth shivered. He grabbed Roche's head, thrust into his mouth, slow and shallow.

Iorveth's leg still hooked on Roche's shoulder, he felt Roche's tensed body shuddered with each thrust. Roche grunted voice stifled and broken. But his tongue gently pushed on Iorveth's foreskin, toyed the exposed sensitive part with his teeth. Iorveth's lower body quivered, the slight pain mixed into intense pleasure, his legs parted wider, let Roche licked on the slimy groove on the tip. Iorveth moaned loudly, finger clenched on the sheets, Roche's finger attached to his crotch, then moved to his thigh, caressing the long, deep scar that hid under the fabric hungrily. Some pleasant noise leaked from his throat.

In Roche's imagination, he was probably skinning Iorveth, stripping him to the bones, taking in every reaction and emotion he made and showed. What an interrogator couldn't have with a prisoner is pleasure, with no doubt. They could plant horror, grow a fake intimately relationship, win their trust, but still, they couldn't have everything. There's always something left in the prisoner. And yet, A good interrogator wants everything, until there is no cover left. Leave no lies, secrets, nothing to discover. 

It's their profession, they just couldn't help it.

Roche was a great interrogator, and most of his prisoners didn't survive.

This idea gave a thrill, rotten feeling, but the sharp pleasure was too intense, Iorveth didn't really care about it at this moment. He let his leg slipped down, then kicked on Roche's left kneecap to part. His toes reached to Roche's groin.

Roche captured his ankle and locked it on the floor firmly. _No disturb. Got it._

Iorveth's fingers moved back to Roche's hair, combed it idly. Roche had a lot more white hair now. His short hair now looks peppers and salt. Roche was definitely getting old. A few years later, people would probably mistake Roche and him as two generations. Something about the thought was unsettling, Iorveth ignored it, focusing on the wet, soft heat on his lower body.

Roche kept sucking Iorveth, made some moist, exhausted sound. His jaw must be sore now. But as an Aen Seidhe, Iorveth still needs a few minutes and a few pushes. He relaxed, enjoying Roche's service. Iorveth touched Roche's sweaty face, felt the bulged lump that rutting inside his mouth. Roche made some annoying sound, but it didn't stop Iorveth from moving his finger to Roche's mouth, let him suck on it. Roche licked his finger, sucked on the fingertip. Iorveth's dried blood melted, dyed on Roche's swollen lips.

Iorveth stroked himself a few times, then entered Roche's mouth again. He grabbed on the backside of Roche's head, fucked his mouth fast and hard. Roche made a pained, gaged sound. He's choking. But Iorveth pressed Roche's head on his crotch, thrust hard. Vaguely, the idea of himself breeding Dh’oine flashed in Iorveth's head, disgusted him- even it's a man, even it's Roche. But the idea had its own forbidden and rotten pleasure too.

Waves of pleasure growing in his belly drowned him, then the intense orgasm hit him like a soft punch. He quivered, then came.

It was a blank but joyful second, full of soft buzz, then Iorveth heard his own moan again. He panted, shuddered, his hips still budged a few times, finally ceased.

Iorveth's stomach rose and fell, he laid a hand on his chest, gasped softly.

Without a word, Roche spitted the cum on the floor. He stood up stiffly, wiped his mouth with his palm.

_Extra service needs extra fees, well._ Iorveth thought lazily.

A few minutes passed, Iorveth struggled to grab a handful of the sheets, tidy himself up. He saw Roche poured himself a cup of vodka to rinse his mouth. Roche's face was a mess, red and hot, covered with sweats, saliva, and tears. Translucently stripes of semen draped over his swollen lips. Iorveth admired it, fumbled with his belt, fetched his trousers up. The wounds on Iorveth's back torn open again. He could feel the blood dripping down his back.

There's no word left to say. Iorveth looked back at Roche, thought he should excuse himself out, left Roche to take - he stared at Roche's crotch - his business. The art of dealing with Dh’oine was mostly about knowing when to attack and when to fall back.

"I could still take care of that," Iorveth suggested again, far too generous, probably sentimental too, "If you want."

"I want you to leave," Roche glared at him, face still red, his lips twisted, "But you won't fulfill my wish, what kind of fairy are you?"

"The one that from your nightmare," Iorveth mocked halfheartedly, "Didn't you already knew that?"

Roche snored. He fell in a chair, still drinking what's left of the vodka. Iorveth stood up, picked up his shirt, managed to get dressed. The silk soaked in blood immediately and clung on his back, like a second skin. It was ruined for sure. Iorveth thought about it carelessly, buttoned up. There's a slight stinging sensation under his clothes, but somehow, he felt safe, confident.

He could still feel his anger, but it's well-fed now, taking a nap. He could sleep now.

_If a bow's in a bad shape, it needed maintenance, someone has to tune it carefully. Simple as that, nothing else._

Iorveth put on his leather jacket, covered the bloodstains completely. He scanned the room; everything's with a little bit of blood on it now. Roche will clean these mess, like the good, hard-working servant he was. Thought Iorveth. Roche did it before, for the Dh’oine king. Now he still eagerly wanted to serve someone, something, without self-consciousness.

And Iorvthe could give him that.

He moved, stood in front of Roche, stared at him. Roche didn't look back, he lowered his head, focused on his drink. He still looked angry, but almost sleepy.

Roche was exhausted, he never lies.

Iorveth's hands and knees were an inch apart from Roche, but he didn't move any closer, neither did Roche.

There were things more shameful than what they did before. Even for him, even for Roche.

For a few minutes, Iorveth kept this position. Roche's warm body heat radiated from his limp, tired body, like invisible fingers on Iorveth's cold skin. It's tenderer than what Roche would actually do. Strange, those actions were so rare, but this one wasn't uncomfortable. This is one thing he would miss.

Roche looked at him, didn't say a word. There's no rage, no desire, no hunger in Roche's eyes. Nothing. It's not cold, either. Roche allowed him to watch, to feed on him.

Iorveth blinked. He straight up, turned to leave.

Roche remained silent.

Then he's left in the dimming light, behind the closed door, already forgotten.

Until next time they meet.

On the way back to his chamber, Iorveth could still smell blood on him. It stank under his cloth. He walked slowly and carefully in the dark, although the Nilfgaardians never really cared about this part of the palace - or pretend not to be, they might want to see the conspiracies boiling under the table, the diplomats deal, cooperate, kill each other, then close the net, put them in a saucepot all together. It's a fine way to get rid of pests.

In a few days, Iorveth and Roche would see each other at the Emperor's meeting - and feasts, and balls. They will ignore each other as they should be, rival to each other as always. Roche won't say a word, neither did Iorveth.

But he will bear what Roche gave him, like a little charm, to remind, to keep him safe.

A month, a year later, they will do this again.

It's something Iorveth could choose to hold on to.

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> [X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mOjXMbIc-us)   
> 


End file.
